A bit of my sound

Fuck... I HATE COMPUTERS.

So, I write my first post and as soon as I go to publish it, the fucking thing decides that it doesn't want to connect its electrons with the other electron or neurons or protoconicalfuckingpiecesofshits that it needs to in order for the fucking post to post.

So, all I'm doing now is posting up a poem as opposed to a poem and a rant. Oy. Yinz'll get more more rant later.


Blame it on Gravity

I.
There is a graphic violence in that stare of hers. So, I stare back. Elbows on the island. Palms cupping my chin. “What?” She sings to me as she chops the shitake mushrooms, lips curled up or down or sideways. I smile.

I turn to the family room that I will always call a living room. I don’t give a fuck what Emily Paste or Puste or Pissant dumbass bitch, thinks; it’s a goddamn fucking living room.

Fluffed pillows. Vacuum streaks. Dustless. Centered. Re-centered. Censored.

Fox News continually pelts out nonsense on my love’s new 52-inch flatscreen.
Something about the Korean prerogative and Chinese authorities and pedophiles on Twitter.

I cannot breathe and I cannot listen. I roll my eyes and shake my head.

“What?” I raise my eyebrows in that way that gets her going. “What was that look for?”

There is never a look. Just a looking.

Sometimes it’s so fucking hard being in a love with a republican.

“Nothing, dear.”

I find the clicker and click up.

“… in It’s A Living, starring Ann Jillian in the original episodes. But those were the days leading up to her battle with breast cancer. She did bravely return to help push the show towards syndication before…”

It didn’t take me long to learn how to hang my shoulders and walk the other way.

II.
when i dream i dream subtly and there’s never an ounce of reality but the mixings of real aspects i hate the goddamn number 11 and i fucking hated life when i was openly heterosexual i don’t understand why anyone would want a life openly and to be openly forever openly naked and openly

fuck that shit

i will give you a dream about dreams of becoming

that sexy dyke was in that sexy car and times got lost on Blackberry Road so she turns to me without a face without a name with only existence she tells me to do this and that and of course i fucking like it that way without faces and without names so i entered 40° 40 hours 0 minutes North, 74° 7 hours 4 minutes West into the GPS which are of course the coordinates for…

my dreams prefer the ellipses at the beginning of things

i would have fucked her

fucked her

teased her

felt her

tasted her

but i can’t be a douchebag in this dream not when i cannot even see her face and Casablanca plays in the background and then back to back to back commercials on flame retardant facial hair dykes can buy in porn shops and how to get doped up on Red Bull and 5-hour energy shots without crashing down into a river and she disappears and i’m on a corner in Rochester, PA where football is played to win bridges and the hobo the thumber from my childhood is walking outside of his grave in a new French cuff shirt and he’s waving a crushed pocket watch in the air and he’s screaming down into the water and he’s screaming up into the rusted bolts swaying with the wind and he’s screaming as lines break and he’s screaming

white space
water

and that sexy dyke without a face is staring at me
with rings in her eyes

everything

is in
its place